Normal's Overrated
by LittlemissStarshine
Summary: John Watson was tired. He was tired of Sherlock dragging him through London every night. He was tired of his sister worrying him. He was tired of Sarah complaining that he spends more time than Sherlock than her. He was tired. Until he met Anne Moore.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, everyone! Just letting you all know that this is my first Sherlock story. I know, the title and summery sucks, but it's good. No, stop laughing, it really is! And just a warning: there might be some Americianisms laced around in there. If there are, I'm sorry. But remember, it's the thought that counts!**

**Disclaimer: Like everyone else, I own nothing. Nadda. Zip. But In DO own a wooly sweater like John's, which I will sell to the highest bidder...no, I'm kidding, I'm not going to sell it. I also own any OCs you find scrounging around. But seriously, that's it.**

**Rated T for language and...oh, I don't know, there's bound to be something else I can't see.**

**One more note, I have NOTHING against cats. Nothing. They just got on the page and refused to come off.**

**Alright, enjoy. I'll just be off, hiding.**

* * *

><p>John Watson was tired.<p>

He was tired of Sherlock, for being more of a child than a flat mate. He was tired of the constant running around London to make sure Sherlock was in one piece. He was tired of worrying about his sister every night before going to bed. He was tired of his job where young children bite his fingers when he tries to check their throats and old women believe that just because he can cure them means that he can cure their _cats_. He was tired of people assuming that he and Sherlock were a couple, and was tired of Sarah complaining that he spent too much time with Sherlock than with her. Which was _completely _untrue, but he was just too tired to think about it.

Long story short? He was _tired_.

Which was why on one Saturday morning, when John came down from his room to make breakfast, he didn't bother complaining about the experiments leaking on the table or Sherlock's damn skull tripping him through the doorway—he doesn't bother asking "Why" anymore. He knelt down and picked it up to look at it. The skull—Yorik, he calls it affectionately—grinned at him with a big, toothy smile, and large, black hollows where its eyes were once, as if saying, "I understand." John barred his teeth at it in a similar grin and placed it carefully back on the mantelpiece and turned to see the culprit. As usual, Sherlock laid stretched out on the couch, fingers dashing across the keyboard of his blackberry. The way he sat, with his limbs stretched out completely, made him look feline. _Like an oversized cat_, he thought to himself, and couldn't hold back a giggle.

Sherlock immediately tore his gaze from his blackberry and set it at John. "Do you find something amusing?"

John quickly covered his escaped giggle with a series of coughs. "No," he said once he was sure he wouldn't chuckle again. He moved into the kitchen to hide his smile. "Tea?" he asked from over his shoulder.

He waited a moment, then the usual response: "Yes, thank you."

John laughed to himself. Sherlock didn't know a "thank you" to a "screw you" when he was working on a case, but when it came to John's tea, his manners were impeccable. Unless he didn't make it strong enough. Or put too much milk in. But hey, a thank you is good enough for him.

He prepared the two tea cups and got the biscuits out on a plate, and then got the milk out of the refrigerator. But just as he was about to pour some into his cup, Sherlock's voice floated into the kitchen. "Don't use that milk."

John, knowing better, immediately drew the bottle away from the cup and examined it under the kitchen light. "Why, what's wrong with it?" he asked. "Is a toe inhabiting it? Some brain tissue?"

"Cyanide."

John nearly dropped the bottle. He re-opened the lid and carefully lifted it to his nose and sniffed. The strong scent of almonds filled his senses. He groaned and poured it down the drain. "Dammit, Sherlock…"

"What, it never occurred to you to smell it before going ahead to consume it? Honestly, John, one would've thought that after living with me for over a year, it would've occurred to you to smell something before using it."

John snorted and stomped into the living-room with two cups of tea in hand. "Oh, so you're blaming me for almost poisoning myself with cyanide? Who was the one who put it in the milk? And furthermore, why the _Hell_ did you even put it in there in the first place?"

Sherlock sighed and gave him the look that he usually reserved for Anderson. "Cats," he said slowly.

John blinked. "…Cats?"

"Yes, John, cats. Mrs. Hudson's been complaining about a group of stray cats that have been lurking around the building and copulating quite loudly near her bedroom window. She said that she needed some help controlling them, so…"

John took a moment to process the information, then rubbed a hand over face and said, "Sherlock, you _can't_ go around poisoning stray cats with cyanide-laced milk. It's not looked well upon, and is frankly _inhumane_. And all it gets you is in trouble. Remember when you spiked the police dogs' food with ground up Viagra?"

Sherlock crooked one side of his mouth into a half-smile. "Lestrade certainly does."

John could still remember the look on Lestrade's face when one of the dogs got a little too…emotionally attached to his right leg, and couldn't help the grin that appeared on his face. "Right, well remember that it was wrong. Funny, but wrong. And poisoning cats isn't even funny, so cut it out."

"Of, course, Doctor."

John rolled his eyes and grabbed his wallet. "Yes, and while you're lounging on the couch, I'm going to be a responsible flat mate and get some more milk." He dashed down the stairs two at a time, not seeing the smile that spread on Sherlock's face.

* * *

><p>John took his time strolling through the long aisles of the supermarket. He picked up milk long ago, and now he was perusing through the aisles, looking at the sales and food brands. He stopped in the middle of the aisle: he had a date with Sarah tonight. How could he have forgotten that? He walked through the aisles, trying to remember what Sarah told him when he was getting off his shift. <em>Why don't we have a night in? We can watch a movie and I'll make you my favorite meal, Tofu Stir-fry? Tell you what, I'll get the movie, and you can get the tofu and vegetables.<em> John sighed with relief at the memory and happily got an assortment of frozen vegetables, then looked around until he found the tofu section. Get some tofu. How hard could that be?

He looked at the selection and felt his mouth drop.

Silken tofu. Firm tofu. Extra-firm tofu. Marinated, dried, seasoned. What the Hell?

John picked up two different types of tofu and stared between the two. He's been on the battlefront of Afghanistan. He's been shot in the shoulder. He was in a pool explosion with his friend and a _psychopath_. But he was never prepared for this. He looked between the two squishy packages and had absolutely no idea which one to buy. The silken? Or the firm? The silken? Or…

"The firm."

John blinked and looked to his side to see a woman a few feet away from him, staring back with an amused grin on her face. John paused and asked, "I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, you should get the firm tofu."

He continued to stare at the woman, and her smile grew. Finally, he realized what he was doing and cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. He looked back up after a minute and asked, "How do you know what tofu I need?"

She took a step toward him and motioned towards his basket. "Your vegetables. The particular brand you bought is usually made into a vegetable stir-fry. Most women I know, including myself, tend to put tofu into their stir-fries, usually the firm kind. So, there you go. Firm."

John looked at her in disbelief and realized that he was gaping at her. He closed his mouth and with as much dignity as he could muster, asked, "Good observation. But how do you know I was making a stir-fry now? I could have had another dish that didn't have firm tofu in mind and other ingredients at home, and these," he lifted the basket, "could've been for later."

She smiled and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, that is a good point. But, judging from the completely…" She paused and bit her lip to find an appropriate word. "…stumped look on your face, I'm guessing that you don't have much experience concerning tofu dishes. So, I'm guessing you're buying dishes for a girlfriend."

John raised an eyebrow. "What about wife?"

Her face lit up and she laughed. "Oh, goodness no! No wife would ever let you leave the flat wearing those socks with those shoes!"

John looked down and his feet. He thought he looked decent enough. "What's wrong with my socks and shoes?"

She shook her head, but looked utterly amused. She walked up so that she was standing side-by-side with him. "Just remember, use the firm. I, on the other hand," she gently plucked the silken from his hand, "need this tonight." She put it in her basket and looked up at him with a smile. "Well, I hope your night in goes well!" She walked off with a chuckle and turned the corner, leaving a wooly-jumpered doctor stuck in his place. He looked down at the box of tofu and slowly placed it in his basket. He rubbed his head in agitation, and had a good itch to scream, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was, "Unbelievable."

* * *

><p><strong>Hey, look at that cute little "review" button, sitting there. All alone, just waiting for someone to click it. Come on, for the sake of Wooly-jumpered doctors, press the button. Don't make us bring out the riding crop...<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow, I actually made a second chapter...that was something I was not anticipating! But I'd like to thank everyone who read and liked this story...you know who you are! *points into random audience***

**Disclaimer: I really don't want to write it again. It makes me too sad. But you know it. I know it. I known nothing...except the OCs...but I'll be nice, and sell one of them to the highest bidder. **

**Rated T for language and violent amounts of OOC. Sorry.**

* * *

><p>When John returned home, Sherlock was still in the same position he was before John left. He stood at the foot of the couch, waiting for some kind of recognition from Sherlock to let John know he knew he was here. The only thing that greeted him was the constant clicking of taps from Sherlock's blackberry.<p>

John waited.

And waited.

And—

"Yes, John, I know you're back. And no, I didn't mess with your computer. Again."

John smiled and strolled into the kitchen to put away the food. But just as he walked in, he saw it, lying like a sack of bones in the middle of the floor, completely blocking the way to the refrigerator. John stood there motionless for another few minutes, then slammed the bag of groceries on the table and stormed back into the living room.

"Sherlock, what the _Hell_ is a cat doing on the kitchen floor?"

For the first time since he returned home, Sherlock looked away from his phone and furrowed his eyebrows at John. "What? Oh yes, that. Don't worry, it's fine, just—"

"—An experiment," John interrupted. "Yeah, I know. But what is it doing lying in our kitchen?" An expression of horror spread across his face. "Oh God, Sherlock, you didn't—"

"No John, I didn't give it cyanide-laced milk, if that's what you're thinking."

John sighed with relief, but immediately asked, "Then what happened to it?"

"I gave it one of Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers."

Of course. He walked back into the kitchen and knelt down, continuing to stare at it. _I bet the little bugger's got fleas, _he thought with disgust, and made a mental note to clean the flat spotless just to be safe. He sighed and stood up, and gently nudged the passed-out cat under the table with his foot so that he could have access to the fridge. He put everything away normally until he picked up the tofu. He looked at it was immediately remembered the woman in the store. He cleared his throat. Maybe he should tell Sherlock. It could be interesting knowing that there was someone out there kind of like him. Then again, this was Sherlock. He'd probably sniff in distaste and make some snarky remark about how dim-witted John was to even see similarities between him and another human being. Maybe he had a sister lurking around that he didn't know of. Maybe—

"John, whatever's bothering you, just spit it out already."

He huffed indignantly and asked, "How could you possibly know something was bothering me?"

"You keep making that annoying noise with your throat."

He huffed indignantly again. He didn't make any annoying noise! Just as he thought that, he cleared his throat, quite loudly if I may add. Oh. That noise.

He took a breath, and strolled back into the living room and sat down in his chair. Sherlock was typing away at his blackberry when John asked, "Do you have a sister I don't know about?"

At that, Sherlock turned his head and furrowed his eyebrows. "What?"

"Doesn't have to be a sister, could be a cousin. I don't know."

"John, what on _earth_ are you blathering on about?"

John felt utterly stupid, and rubbed the back of his head. "Nothing. I," he breathed out a soft laugh, "I met someone who had your…deducing skills."

Sherlock's face turned into the familiar annoyed look. "My deducing skills," he re-stated.

"Yeah. This woman was able to determine what kind of tofu I needed by my brand of frozen vegetables."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted his attention back to his phone. "John, that wasn't someone with my 'deducing skills,' that was someone who was actually using her brain to figure something obvious out. Pity I wasn't there; I would've given her a medal. Now, before you try to tell me something else completely trivial to my interests, try following her suit and using a little bit more of your brain."

John sat in his chair motionless, and tapped his fingers restlessly on the armchair. It really didn't matter how long he lived with Sherlock Holmes, it didn't feel too great being shot down. He stood up and marched up to his room without another word. He made sure the door slammed when he shut it behind him, then flopped down on his bed and took out his computer. He updated his blog for a little while, then saw that it was getting late, and he had that date with Sarah. He shut-down his computer, then got showered and dressed. When he looked suitable enough for a cozy night in, he went down-stairs to get the tofu and vegetables. Sherlock was up by now, glaring hard at the television.

Sherlock glanced at him as he was rummaging around the kitchen. "Going to Sarah's then?"

"Yeah, as soon as I find that bottle of wine I saved. Where'd it go?"

"In the stomach of some fortunate cats."

John gripped his hands on the kitchen counter, but took deep breaths. No problem. He'd buy another bottle on the way there. He grabbed the bag and walked into the living-room. "You going to be okay?"

Sherlock didn't move his eyes from the television. "Yes."

"Don't call me unless it's an emergence, okay?"

"Fine."

"And please, if you set the kitchen on fire again, Mrs. Hudson's got a fire extinguisher."

"God John, I'm not a child you need to make sure is watched constantly." _Says you, the 30-something-year-old man who's still in his pajamas from this morning_, John thought. He sighed and watched the man with both legs curled under him. "Alrighty then. I'll be back tonight. There's leftover Chinese in the fridge. Please, _please_, eat it." John only got a nod as a response, and he walked down the stairs. "Right, see you then."

* * *

><p>The evening with Sarah went as he thought: quiet, relaxed, not much pressure whatsoever. John sat on the couch, looking at the DVD case of the movie that Sarah got, while Sarah was cooking the stir-fry.<p>

"I'm impressed that you got the right kind of tofu," Sarah said. "There are so many kinds, I never thought you'd get it right."

John smiled when he remembered the conversation between him and Tofu Lady. "Yeah, well, you know; lucky guess."

John was helping Sarah set the table and serve the dinner when his phone rang from the couch. Both he and Sarah tensed up when they heard it; they both knew what it was. "Just leave it," he said. "He probably only wants to know when the sodium phosphate is." At that moment, the phone ceased to ring. John relaxed and smiled with relief. "See, no problem." Sarah however, still had her shoulders hunched up and quietly went back into the kitchen.

Needless to say, the night spun downward from there.

They didn't even make it to the movie. The quiet dinner turned to a few sharp remarks, which turned into an all-out fight.

"You enjoy his company more than mine!"

"No, Sarah, it's not like that!"

"Yes it is!"

"Sarah, I like spending time with both of you for different reasons!"

"Then why do you leave whenever he calls you? Why do you follow him around? Do you know how that makes me feel?"

"Sarah, I never meant to hurt you, but—"

"—But what?"

John sighed and rubbed his leg. "Being with Sherlock has helped me, mentally and physically. It was easier adjusting to a civilian life."

"What, because of your adrenaline rushes? Because you prefer risking your life jumping off of buildings and shooting criminals? Why can't you lead a more normal life? You said you didn't mind mundane!"

"I don't mind it. I love it, in fact. But I was in the army; something changed me that needs this. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I tried to just live a 'normal life.' It's who I am."

"And 'who you are' is being blown up in a pool by a psychopath? The only way you can be 'who you are' is by running around with that freak?"

That did it. "How dare you."

"John, I—"

"How _dare _you!" John scooted back violently in his seat and stalked to the couch to grab his jacket and phone. Sarah stood up too. "Where are you going?"

"As far away from you!" He snarled. "How could you? I thought you understood that Sherlock's different. I thought you understood from the first date we went on that this was going to be out of the ordinary. For over a year, you said that you were fine, and that you understood. But you didn't. And now you're like all those bastards who call him—" He couldn't even say it, so he threw his jacket on and stormed out without another word.

* * *

><p><strong>What did I tell you, there was some major OOC going on at the end. Sorry. I know it's annoying. But please, don't take it out on the little Review button. It had nothing to do with it, and needs your love! Anyone who reviews gets a complimentary gift between a wooly-jumpered Doctor or a riding crop. Hm, decisions, decisions.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey, look, I'm aliiive! I'm sorry this took sooo long to upload, but school had been wrecking me for at least 4 months and I was buried head to toe in books. Literally! Thankfully, a special, armed forces rescue-group came to the rescue, and I'm perfectly fine now! But the good news is, I'm finally on summer break! *turns on disco music and does the Snoopy dance* So hopefully, I'll be able to write ALOT faster! I'm also really sorry if this isn't any good, escpecially the end, but I was running out of ideas and, darn it, I just wanted it done so I could move on! I'm also sorry that nothing's really happening in this chapter, but I had to add the epic bromance that these two adorable guys have, because...it's sooooo CUTE! Anyway, I am hoping to have some nice peace made between John and Sarah in the next one, followed by introducing the new character more. And I'll be honest, I really don't dislike Sarah. She's good. She's awesome, in fact. Did you see her beat that chinese gansta into the ground? Major points for her. I just didn't mean to make her that...mean in the last chapter. OK. Enough with my ramblings. On with the show! :D**

**Disclaimer: Please don't make me say this again. You know I own nothing, I know I own nothing. It's fine. It's all fine. **

**Rated T for heavy alcohol use, swearing and abused use of silliness. **

* * *

><p>Sherlock wasn't surprised when he heard John come storming back into the flat. He also wasn't surprised when John came crashing into the living room with an unopened bottle of wine in hand. Sherlock lay still on the couch with his phone in hand and watched John pace around the living room, into the kitchen, then back into the living room and sit heavily in his chair. He crossed his legs and rubbed his temples.<p>

The room was in complete silence for an agonizing amount of minutes before Sherlock said softly, "You're back early."

John whipped his hand from his head and glared at Sherlock. "Of _course _I am Sherlock. That's what happens when you have a fight with your girlfriend!"

Sherlock decided to play innocent and asked, "What happened?"

John's eyebrows flew to his hairline and his face turned a light shade of red. "What happened? Don't bloody ask me what happened, you sod! You're the one who ruined this night, because you couldn't be bloody bothered to not do me one, _tiny, _favor and not call! I told you only call during emergencies, and what do you do? You—"

"It was an emergency, John."

John bit his tongue midway through his rant. "_What_?"

Sherlock reached back to the end-table and picked up a set of keys. He jingled them for emphasis. "You forgot your house keys."

John looked at the keys, then snatched them out of Sherlock's grip. "And what, it never occurred to you that you could have let me in? Or Mrs. Hudson? Hell, I might have actually stayed at Sarah's tonight!" Sure, on the lilo, probably, but he wanted to make a point. He flew violently from his chair and placed the wine bottle on the coffee table, then went storming into the kitchen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "Please, John, don't get into a fit. You and Sarah will make up in the morning. That's what usually happens."

John came back in, this time with a wine cork screw and a large wine glass. "No, it won't Sherlock. Not this time."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please," he said, "what could have possibly happened that broke up your relationship before 10 pm?"

John turned and exploded. "You, Sherlock! We had a fight about you! Because she's convinced that I prefer spending all of my God-given time with you! Because she called you a freak! It's all about you, even when it's not supposed to be!"

Sherlock remained static, but sat up and stared hard at John. "John, you fail to realize that standing up for me makes no effect. I've been called a 'freak' before by people, and it never bothered me. It still doesn't. So don't take your failed relationship out on me."

John stared at Sherlock with his mouth agape, then grabbed the wine bottle and stomped out of the room, letting the door slam loudly behind him.

Sherlock flinched when he heard John's bedroom door slam upstairs. He sighed and stretched back down on the sofa, and twisted his arm back to get a new box of nicotine patches. He got one out and slapped it on his arm. _Slap._ Stupid John. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that his relationship with Sarah was on the brink. It wasn't his fault that Sarah felt resentful towards Sherlock. And it certainly wasn't his fault in the first place when Sarah was nearly killed by those Chinese smugglers. He tried in the beginning to make her leave. Stupid Sarah. _Slap. _And John was so desperate to make her stay. Stupid John. _Slap._

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his temples. It wasn't his fault that he'd become so dependent on John being around. But ever since the night of the Pool Explosion, Sherlock had never trusted John going out alone. They never found Moriarty's body; any time John went out, it would have been a perfect opportunity to snatch John away again. And that scared him.

Of course, he would never admit that.

* * *

><p>John, on the other hand, blamed Sherlock completely. Sure, maybe it was the anger (and soon, the alcohol) that was talking, but he didn't care. He flounced down on his bed and kicked off his shoes. Stupid Sherlock. He popped the cork from the wine bottle and poured it to the rim of his glass. He put the glass to his mouth, and didn't remove it until it was drained. John shook his head from the rush of alcohol entering his system, but refilled the glass in order to spill some more of that sweet drink down his throat.<p>

Now, where was he? Oh, right. Stupid Sherlock. Always interfering with his personal life. Always coming into the conversation, even when he wasn't there. Always making John defend him, even when he doesn't want John to. Hm. Stupid Sherlock. John sipped on the full glass of wine again, this time more slowly. A pleasant blurriness rimmed around the edges of his vision, and his head began to buzz; John liked this feeling very much. He unconsciously drank the remainder of the wine in his glass and filled it again in order to keep himself in the state he was. That's when his mind began wandering. His thoughts bounced from Sarah to Sherlock, to the unidentified smell in the kitchen, then suddenly, to cats. He didn't like cats, really, ever since he was scratched by an old gray tabby cat his aunt brought around one day when he was nine…that was a mean cat. He liked dogs. Yes, dogs, who were loyal and friendly and had big, sticky wet tongues and always greeted you when you came home and…they were so _cute!_ Cute, cute, cute. John thought that if he were any animal, he'd be a dog. Yep. Like Old Yeller. Loyal, dependable, cuddly…Sherlock wouldn't be a dog, he supposed. Sherlock…Sherlock was a cat. A big, long, black-furred cat. John suddenly laughed at the image of Sherlock with two large cat ears, popping out from his massive head of curls. He laughed harder when he added whiskers and imaginary-Sherlock-cat glared at him petulantly. Oh, this was fun!

John, who by now was using the once full wine bottle as a telescope, stumbled out of bed and opened the door. He giggled while staggering down the stairs and headed for the kitchen. This night deserved another drink!

Sherlock, who was still on the couch downstairs, paused and listened when he heard loud, uncoordinated footsteps tromping down the stairs. He didn't need his powers of deductions to realize that John was heavily inebriated. He stayed completely still, and listened as the kitchen door was knocked open, followed by an audible "Shhhhh." Sherlock sighed and got up to follow the clanking sounds that came from the kitchen. He stood by the entrance and watched John crouched down, looking for something in one of the lower cabinets. "John?"

Said man jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice, thereby banging his head quite hard on the top of the cabinet and groaning a string of curses. When John stood up, he faltered as if he were dizzy, and rubbed the back of his head. He looked around and saw Sherlock. "Ah-ha!" he exclaimed. "It's you…the walking mood killer."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, you're drunk."

"And you are a _bad_ kitty!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

John waggled a finger. "Don't you play coy with me, you insufferable feline. Always coming into business you're not supposed to be in." John attempted to walk out with a bottle of whiskey that he found under the sink, but Sherlock swooped from the entryway and grabbed both the bottle and John's arm. John's body couldn't decide whether to yank himself from Sherlock's grip or get the bottle of whiskey back, but his movements achieved neither goal. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's arm and put the whiskey bottle back on the table, then trudged John back to the staircase. By then, John was able to pull himself out of the vice grip and stood on the first step. "Don't treat me like a child! I'm perfectly capable of getting back to my bedroom without the help of you, Sherl—Shrerl—Shirley." He continued to climb-

-and didn't even know how he became face-to-face with one of the steps.

Sherlock sighed and gently helped John back onto his feet, then assisted in guiding his flat mate up the stairs. Well, guiding on wasn't quite the correct word. Acting as a surrogate leaning pole was a better description. John leaned into Sherlock, making them both almost tumble back down the stairs multiple times. John didn't particularly notice; he was lost in thought. "I really thought I could make it with Sarah…do you intentionally do these things to make sure I never get the bliss of domestication, Shirley?"

Sherlock heaved them down the hall and opened the door to John's room. "Don't be stupid, why would I do that?" He glared out of the corner of his eye. "And don't call me Shirley," he added.

John ignored the last part and stumbled across the room to the edge of his bed. "I dunno…God, I'm never going to find anyone willing to stick with me. I'm not going to find anyone, will I?"

Sherlock sighed. He kept reminding himself that this was one of the reasons he was a sociopath. "John, you're not going to end up alone. Sooner or later, you're going to find a girl who's, oh, I don't know, pretty and annoyingly 'cute' and smart—to your standards—and is willing to share that ideal lifestyle you obviously imagine. Sarah was obviously not that girl."

"No. I guess not…" John stretched out on the bed and yawned. Finally, Sherlock thought, the alcohol is catching up. "It's still going to be a long shot, though, getting any girl to stick around with you in the picture." He glanced drowsily at Sherlock. "Shirley?"

Sherlock sighed again. "I am not going to respond to that name, John."

"…Shirley?"

"Oh, what is it?"

"I take it back…you're a very good kitty."

Sherlock didn't know whether to be touched or disturbed, so he decided dismissive was the best option. "Go to sleep, John." He turned off the light and walked to the door. Behind him, John giggled to himself. "What's funny now?"

The giggled diminished, but he still had a stupid grin on his face. "Nuthin, just thinking about tofu."

Sherlock didn't even try to deduce that. "Goodnight, John," he said softly, and closed the door.

In the darkness, John yawned again and let his eyes drift shut. "Goodnight, Shirley," he murmured, before dreaming about cats and supermarkets.

* * *

><p>John could already tell that he was going to have a headache the entire day when he finally gained consciousness the next morning. He kept his eyes closed to reduce the pain brought from the too bright sun coming through his window. Damn thing.<p>

Speaking of last night…John tried to remember what happened. But all he remembered was something about cats and Sherlock. And wine, by the feel of his head. He groaned and shifted in his damp-clad sheets, but paused. Something incredibly soft and uncomfortably warm was wedged between his arm and his torso. Slowly, John opened his eyes and turned his head to the area in question. He cautiously pulled back the sheet and looked. Immediately he yelled loudly and pushed the culprit hard on its side.

The cat yowled in both shock and irritation and jumped off the bed, landing on all four paws. It hissed at John, then ruffled its fur and stalked out through the nudged open door. John leapt out of bed and began to strip it. The damn thing's probably gotten all sorts of diseases on his bed spread, let alone himself!

"Stop fretting, the cat's clean," said a deep voice that emanated from the bedroom door. John glared at the lithe consulting detective who was leaning on the door frame, watching John in amusement. John continued to tear the sheets off.

"I don't care what you claim," he snapped, "I don't want that cat in my bed again! I'm probably going to die of some sort of feline disease." He might have been exaggerating, and he did hear what Sherlock said before, but come on, that thing was a stray cat that not 24 hours ago was passed out from Mrs. Hudson's soothers in their kitchen. "How'd it get in here anyway?"

Sherlock shrugged, then walked away to let John get dressed. After a very long shower, just to be safe, John came downstairs in a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt (it was too hot for one of his jumpers). He placed one hand onto his forehead as he walked into the kitchen; he really drunk himself silly, he concluded, after finding the empty bottle underneath his bed. John immediately took aspirin to ease his splitting head, then made himself a strong cup of coffee. He sat down at a part of the table where there wasn't a leaking experiment. The whiskey bottle that he attempted to snatch the blurry night before was sitting across the table, taunting him. He made an effort to glare at the bottle, then took a sip of this coffee.

Sherlock came sleuthing in a moment later, pausing when he saw John, red-eyed and hunched over the table. John looked at Sherlock through his still bleary vision. Sherlock silent crossed the room and sat down at the other side of the table, picking up the cup of tea that was left there. John glanced at it and raised an eyebrow. "You made your own tea?" he asked.

"No, Mrs. Hudson made it," he said before taking a sip. He looked at John's expression expectantly. "What? You were sleeping. I thought I was being considerate."

John couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face, and returned his attention back to his throbbing headache. Stupid medicine claimed to be fast-acting. Ha!

Sherlock noticed the discomfort, and said, "Most medicines claim that they can relieve pain twenty minutes after you take it, but I've found that it usually takes thirty minutes for its effect."

John rubbed his head. "Yeah, thanks for that. At least you took away the whisky before I drank that too. Where did we even get whisky? I don't remember buying it."

"It's not whisky. I needed a bottle that I could store my hydrochloric acid in." John's eyes shot up to gawk at him. Sherlock tweaked one side of his mouth. "At least I took it away before you drank it."

John sighed. "No matter. Anyway, I was so pissed that I wouldn't have known the difference." Sherlock made an amused huff that, for Sherlock, could be interpreted as a chuckle. Both men, however, refused to talk about last night; Sherlock's reason being that he does not associate himself with anything concerning emotions, and John's that he couldn't remember more than half the night anyway. After a minute of silence, John cleared his throat and said, "Is the newspaper in yet?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's in the living room."

John nodded and walked into the living room to retrieve the paper, which was placed conveniently on the coffee table. John picked it up and moved backwards to sit in his chair. He didn't have to go to work today (thank God), which meant that he could have time to think and contemplate what to do. He sat slowly in his chair, but yelled leapt back up at hearing a death-rattling shriek, followed by the feeling of sharpened claws sinking into his lower back. The cat leapt off John's chair and hurried out the door, down the staircase. "_For God's sake_, Sherlock, get that fucking cat out of our flat!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Heeeeeeeyyyyy! You made it all the way through this one! Congrats! :D But look at that lil review button...it need your luv! Go on, you know you want to! *sings badly* Caaaaan you feeeel the loooove toniiiight...**


End file.
